


Twin Flames

by darcymariaphoster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Use, Fluff, Futuristic, M/M, Mind Palace, Sarcasm, blowjob, first attempt at war violence, government control, spirituality, twin flames/soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcymariaphoster/pseuds/darcymariaphoster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twin Flames: Two halves of a single unit. Yin and Yang.</p><p>Everything was done through the Machine. There was too much room for human error. </p><p>In a world where most decisions are made for them, Sherlock and John meet quite on purpose. But the consequences are all their own. What they do now could change the entire game.</p><p>Main: Johnlock with sides of Lecroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface: Incompatible

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof. All respects to Sir A.C. Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. Thank you all, good sirs.**

 

_**A/N: So I got a bit bored with the overabundance of “soul mates and guardian angels” deal going around lately. I decided to try my hand at something a bit different and less cliched. Hopefully it won’t go over too terribly…** _

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Twin Flames: Two halves of a single unit. Yin and Yang. When the first descent into the Third Dimension happened, the two opposites of a single soul were torn apart and the Twin Flames were created. Both the Flames are incarnated in separate lives, always feeling, on some level, that they are missing something…**

 

* * *

 

 

_“Incompatible.”_

 

The electronic voice was crisp and clear, cutting and vicious. It was a simple word but not one that anyone wanted to hear. When he didn’t move from the detector, it rang again:

 

_“Incompatible.”_

 

As if he hadn’t heard it the first time. The reality of the word slowly sank in and the blonde stumbled forward, his feet refusing to work with him and so his hands shot out to catch himself on anything. The palm of his right hand met the tacky blue paint of the wall, where so many others must have rested their hands when they received the same sentence. Using the wall as a crutch, he stumbled away from the detector. A woman was at the end of the narrow hallway to meet him with his clothes, items that he gratefully took to wrap himself up into a semblance of security again. She gave him a sympathetic smile as she closed the curtain so he could dress. He glanced back at the detector, part of him wanting to try again and the rest of him screaming that it _was true_.

 

John H. Watson had never been scared of his future before. He had always decided to be the best he could and assumed that that would carry him through life. He hadn’t seen himself as particularly unattractive; thought his good qualities had outweighed his bad. He had been confident walking into the Pairing Center, sure he would be given a Date to return.

 

There was no Date. He would never have a partner.

 

As he fixed his purple tie, he looked gravely into the mirror, trying to swallow back the fear and the anger and the pure pain he was feeling. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and set his expression to determination. He still had a future. Sort of. He adjusted his jacket and walked back out, accepting his paperwork from the attendant who cheerfully informed him, “There are always options, Mr. Watson. Maybe your Job will be better.”

 

Better.

 

He tried not to let his expression fall too much as he gripped the papers and slumped out of the Pairing Center, doing his absolute best not to let the knot in his stomach get to him too much.

 

Honestly, there was no need to be nervous after all, Sherlock rationalized as he stood in front of the Pairing Center. His twentieth birthday had been last week and he had only delayed this long because he had better things to do. But his parents were _insisting_ now. He knew what the answer would be but facing it was proving to be a bit more difficult. The lanky young man was not so much concerned with the answer he was expecting but instead by the answer he wasn’t expecting.

 

He glanced around him carefully before marching into the building. It was clean and very white. Traditional. Organized. He grimaced only slightly as he walked to the counter to sign in. The attendant beamed at him, her green eyes dulled by the tediousness of the job but still sparkling with inner excitement. She must be engaged. He glanced at her hand as she passed him the tablet to sign in with. Married.

 

He accepted the tablet and began answering the questions quickly. The beginning questions were basics -- age, gender, and a fingerprint scan. Then they got into the personality quiz. He hesitated. He knew the Machine would be able to see everything, compare what It found to the answers he put. There would be a minor penalty for lying. But he hated all the options he saw on each one. Scowling, he thumbed through, deciding that “getting close” was the best he was required to do and he finished it in record time. The screen flashed a generic _thank-you_ message and he passed back the tablet.

 

Sherlock was guided to the Blood Booths where the attendant sat him down and prepared his arm for a “quick blood-draw”. This was the part that most people hated. The blood that was drawn was taken in a vial to a detector. The room would be empty for exactly five minutes before the subject was let inside, asked to strip and then directed to the detector. The detector would already have your blood examined; DNA, diseases, sicknesses, average heart rate, normal pulse -- it was all read in a matter of minutes from the freshly supplied blood. People tended to get upset by this, finding it to be an invasion of privacy. What they didn’t seem to connect was that doctors did the same things all the time. It was a basic test now and all of it went to your files anyway. There was no need to get upset and so Sherlock sat still, tuning in and out of the attendant’s explanation of the blood-draw. As if it made a difference if he didn’t like the idea.

 

When she was finished, she smiled at him and told him that he’d done wonderfully before corking the vial and sending it up a shoot. She bandaged his arm and instructed him to wait by the curtain with the marker number 22 above it. He rolled down his sleeve and silently went to his assigned curtain. He was off by three seconds, counting down his waiting time. The attendant asked him to step in, strip down, and hand her his clothes. Feeling a tad bit impatient, he stepped into the hall and briskly stripped, passing a crudely folded pile of clothes back to her. She told him to walk to the detector and wait until the light on the top turned green instead of red. When he got his result, he was to return to the curtain to fetch his clothes.

 

Muttering about how he understood, he turned and faced the cold machine just down the short, narrow hallway. It was as simple looking as a metal detector. But it held so much more inside it. There was so much _sentiment_ associated with this machine. Sherlock Holmes slowly walked toward it, his feet making a quiet patting sound on the heated floor. He tried to keep his steps measured, tried not to let his _fear_ get to him. There was a fifty-fifty chance. The Machine read everything about you. One odd pore in his skin, a stray thought, a poor memory -- any of it could change his fate. He stopped in front of the detector, it’s presence mocking him.

 

Then the light turned green and, taking a very deep breath, he steeled himself and stepped inside.

 

The door was slammed shut behind him. He’d had a very long walk home and not one second of consoling himself had actually worked. Instead, John felt very angry. His mother called to him from the kitchen but he ignored her and went to his room, slamming the door there, too. He didn’t want to be consoled, pitied. He wanted to be alone. Not that he particularly _needed_ to be. He had already killed the idea that the Machine had made a mistake. He’d already exhausted all his own self-pitying remarks. He had even tried every trick he knew to cheer himself up, including binging on a latte on his way home that he regretted the first sip. Now it was only to be angry.

 

Anger came before emptiness.

 

He was angry that he had not managed to be a good enough man that he would be found Compatible. He was angry that everything he knew about his world was wrong. He was angry that he’d been lied to. He was angry that he was going to be alone for the rest of his life. He was angry that this meant he had less job options. He was angry that he was angry. And so he sat fuming for hours upon hours.

 

The thing that had occurred to John on his way home, however, was that there was very little in this world that made sense. One could conform and do their best and still fail, as he had. Then someone else could be wild and careless and still pass, like so many others. It was a flawed system. But everyone relied on it. It was Law.

 

You were Processed when you were born. A sample of your blood was taken and sent away with a copy of all legal documents that you existed. From the moment you left your mother’s womb, you belonged to the government. The doctors Processed you before your mother even got to hold you. You had check-ups every five years. The doctor would take another sample of your blood and update your medical files. It was all common knowledge, really, whether or not people wanted to admit they knew it.

 

John had actually been very interested in this part of Society for a very long time. He had always let the doctors do what they were supposed to and asked questions each time, trying to learn something new. He’d wanted to be a doctor since he was a child. He wanted to understand how a machine could read pulses and heart rates from a small sample of blood. He wanted to know what the Medicine actually did when it was injected into a sick being’s arm. There were many things he knew were not common knowledge and he wanted to find out what they were.

 

As the anger slowly dissipated, he began falling into the empty despair that followed on its heels. He tried to calm himself, taking deep and shuddering breaths.

 

But his anxiety would not disappear. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair once before he stood still, the machine running its scans at an agonizingly slow pace. Numbers and words flashed out of the corner of his eyes but not long enough for him to catch what they were. Finally, the scanners rested by his feet again and the bored electronic voice droned,

 

_“Incompatible.”_

He blinked once. Twice. And shook his head in amazement. He stood still again for a moment, wondering if it was a trick. But the voice chimed again,

 

_“Incompatible.”_

 

The floor beneath his feet began to get a bit warm and so he stepped off. He looked back at it briefly. His fate was sealed then. There had been no need to worry after all -- as he had assured himself anyway. He let out a shaky breath and walked uncertainly toward the curtain, all energy seeming drained from his being. He would not be forced into a companionship. Albeit, the sentence did leave him with very little to work with in the way of finding jobs. But that had not concerned him before and it didn’t now. As he entered the hall, his knees gave out as the full impact of his relief settled on him. He succumbed to the bodily reaction and dropped to the ground, letting the warmth from the floor soak into him.

 

He sat there for a moment or two, trying to get himself under control. The ruffle of the curtain reminded him that he didn’t have all the time in the world while in the building. Carefully putting most of his weight against the left wall -- most people were right-handed; the opposing wall would be tacky with nervous sweat -- he pushed himself up and guided himself the rest of the way down. He was passed his clothes, the attendant smiling sympathetically at him. Ignoring it, he stepped into the side room and dressed. When he was finished, he stared at his reflection proudly. He would get grief when he got home and handed his papers to his parents. But, overall, he was thrilled. The game was still on. There would be nothing to stand in his way now.

  
Sherlock stepped through the curtain and accepted the papers, ignoring her words of comfort as he slipped out the door and into the cool and refreshing spring air. There was nothing better than getting his way. A small, smug smile graced his features as he walked toward the street to catch a cab home.


	2. Chapter One: Job

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof. All respects to Sir A.C. Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. Thank you all, good sirs.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Job: A Government assigned occupation based on a number of factors including: Compatibility, Marital Status, Gender, Age, Blood Type, Disease History. If requirements are not met, no Job is available and you are put on a strict income to help you. Government Assistance is limited and therefore certain measures have begun to rise to ensure that more people get Jobs.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

Looking for a Job had never been something Sherlock had particularly ever looked forward to. He didn’t want to get just _any_ Job. He felt as though he was made for more, something better than what they normally offered. There were specific Jobs that were for Incompatible people, Jobs that were too risky for people with spouses and children. There were a few known ones but when Sherlock was handed the list, he was pleasantly surprised. Circling a few options, he handed the paper back.

 

Everything was done through the Machine. There was too much room for human error so everything had to be processed through the Machine. Even getting a Job. The man behind the counter looked over his circled options before scribbling something on the bottom of the page and sending it through the Filer. His paper would be sent to a sorter downstairs and results would be printed only after he submitted a blood sample. Luckily, this one was only a prick of the finger. A drop of blood was to be placed onto the paper that was sent through a second sorter and matched with his options paper.

 

The wait was less than ten minutes but the seconds dragged. Sherlock picked at his sleeve impatiently. He wanted the results. He glanced up quickly when he heard the sharp _zing_ of the printer. The man looked over the paper with raised eyebrows and then passed it to Sherlock who snatched it up eagerly.

 

_Detective._

 

He frowned deeply. That wasn’t exactly the one he’d been hoping for. There had been far more interesting things on the list and he had only picked this one as a last choice. Apparently, the Machine was out to get him. Maybe It thought this was funny. He looked over the directions that told him when his job officially started and where he was to go on that first day. He neatly folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket before shaking the man’s hand and leaving. He had some thinking to do.

 

That was why he was walking, John reasoned to himself. He watched his feet as he headed toward the Assignment Centre and tried to keep rational. It was a known fact that there were jobs on the list that weren’t public knowledge to keep the appeal of Compatibility alive. Maybe there were still options that would interest him. He kicked a pebble despairingly. Maybe.

 

The building was like the Pairing Center on the outside: brick with exactly five windows on the front, a glass automatic sliding door, bushes on either side of the building that were very neatly trimmed to perfection, lawn that was mowed weekly, pristine walkways, and four flower plants on either side of the walkway. It was very “all business” and cold. That was how all centers were. He frowned up at the cold exterior, hating how his entire life was put into hands he couldn’t even see and considered walking away. He would have to come back, though. By Law, everyone had to either have a Job or be on Government Assistance. You were in the System so it would register if you didn’t have either.

 

He checked his watch, thought about going to get a sandwich and a coffee, changed his mind, and marched into the building. A cheerful woman greeted him at the door and offered him a pamphlet, telling him that there was a ten minute wait. She directed him to sit down in an overly comfortable chair. The pamphlet was vague, telling him what he already knew. There was no list to look at. He sighed and set the paper aside, drumming his fingers on the armrest impatiently. The longer he had to wait, the more he wanted to get up and leave.

 

Finally, a different attendant instructed him to a booth where he sat down and was handed The List. He took it, trying not to let his hands shake too much as he looked it over. It was surprisingly long. All of them had one theme: This Job is stressful and there is a chance you could die. He set the paper down, running a hand through his hair as he took a shaky breath.

 

“...Just check or circle your preferences and we’ll send it to the Sorting for it to be processed and…”

 

He tuned out the man behind the counter again as he picked up the list and looked it over again. His job wasn’t on there. The one thing he had wanted the most and he couldn’t have it. Feeling rather angry, he picked up the pen and circled a few options before handing it back.

 

Sherlock stood on the curb, watching cars pass by in a flurry. He wasn’t sure he wanted to catch a cab this time. Walking was sounding more appealing. He wouldn’t have to deal with anyone that way. And he didn’t want to put up with people. He would have to do more of that than he was looking forward to with his new job. Finally, he turned and walked down the street, stopping in on his favorite shop to get a coffee before heading for the quieter streets of London.

 

He wasn’t a people-person. He hoped that most of his cases would involve dead people because he could handle that best. Dead people didn’t talk back, after all. But there was no promise of it. That scared him, as much as he loathe to admit it. He sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. If only there was a way to pick and choose his cases. The government only had to register that you had a job, had been accepted, and that you were going. They didn’t track your attendance. You couldn’t really be “fired” from a Job. Once you had one, you were tied to it. It was part of the idea that a Perfect Society could be created -- everyone had a Job and no one was left without money.

 

Smiling, he decided he would have to work around regulations. After all, if he was going to be tied to his Job, he was going to make it worth his while.

 

John stared at the printed paper a moment, standing only when a hand to shake was offered to him. He shook it and then slowly made his way to the doors. This was incredible. He hadn't even circled that option. He was ready to break down, feeling so lost and hated. Very hated. He crumpled the paper in one hand, anger coursing through him as he walked the streets of London. He had done his best and it amounted to nothing. The Government saw him as nothing but a spare. He was collateral damage.

 

_Military Doctor._

 

He wasn’t even thrilled that it had a “doctor” in the title. Anything military meant you had basically been sentenced to death. What had he done in his life that would make them see him as nothing? Not even human? He felt utterly worthless. He was going to be alone for as long as he lived and, if the paper was any indication, that wouldn’t be longer than another three months. He was due to training next week. Two months of that and then he would be shipped out to wherever he was “needed”.

 

There was no way to tell his family, he realized. They were all already upset that he was Incompatible. “No grandchildren!” his mother had cried. There was so much disappointment. And then to go in and tell them that he had been assigned a death sentence? He paused in the middle of the busy sidewalk, physically shaking from head to toe as tears welled in his eyes. What had he done? His hand tightened around the paper and he started crying. _What had he_ done _to deserve this?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock arrived to work on Monday, signing in with his fingerprint. He was technically going to be part of the Scotland Yard, under the supervision of a “DI Lestrade” for the first year of his Job. He peered around the quiet but bustling office areas, looking for a door or a nameplate of some sort to tell him where to go.

 

A voice at the front of the office caught everyone’s attention. A tall man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, was standing in front. He had his hands on his hips, holding his jacket back. There was a definite air of authority about him as he surveyed the quieting room. Finally, he smiled and his face transformed. He ran a hand through his hair and said, “So, it’s the first day for two new recruits. We have one who’s going to be under my supervision and another who’s going into forensics with Miller. Try not to be too antagonizing toward Sherlock Holmes and Philip Anderson.”

 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at a lanky, sullen man who seemed particularly uncomfortable to be under the spotlight. But he smiled and waved a bit and the room chimed in with “hellos” and “welcomes”. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands into his pockets. So much for not having to put up with people. He assumed that the man at the front was Lestrade and so he eagerly waited for him to finish the rest of his very dull and generic welcoming speech to meet him halfway through the room.

 

He stuck his hand out and simply stated, “Sherlock Holmes. When do we actually start?”

 

Lestrade accepted his hand and shook it uncertainly. “Don’t be so eager as of yet… Come on, let’s go to my office and I’ll run it down for ya.” He led him through the mass of people to a door with his name painted on the window, letting Sherlock in first. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. “Let me go through your file with you really fast and let you know what you can expect.”

 

 _Tedious,_ Sherlock thought in annoyance but sat through the DI’s explanation. The whole thing was very straightforward and boring: _You’re here mainly because you’re Incompatible. That means your Job will be dangerous. I’m here to guide you through the basics and set you off on your own. Under no circumstances are you allowed to divulge a case to anyone outside of your team. There is a privacy policy that you’ll need to read and sign. Any injuries you may sustain while on the job are your responsibility to report and file, unless you are physically or mentally incapable of doing so. The Job is taxing and requires a lot of your time. If you are not physically in shape, you’re to let me know so I can enroll you into an exercise programme. When the year is up, you are to sign a statement that you understand what you’ve been taught and that you are capable of your job without supervision. Always ask questions if you don’t get something. There are no stupid questions and the last thing needed is a misunderstanding that could get you or anyone on the team killed. This is a training programme and therefore it is important that you know everything there is to teach you. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Holmes._

 

It was a pity, really. The DI was friendly and nice. But he wasn’t going to be following all the rules and he already knew it. Sherlock wasn’t one to conform and squeeze into a mould he didn’t fit into and he wasn’t going to compromise that now. Maybe he’d be able to explain how he worked to Lestrade later but in the meantime, there was nothing to do except nod and lie. He even tossed in a very fake but cute smile to the naive Detective Inspector who absolutely beamed back at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John had rarely been this tired before. Sure, he’d always been a morning person by default but this was a bit much for him. There was running before breakfast and push-ups before bed. He once had to read half a textbook before lunch. His brain was nothing but medical terminology and emergency protocol. And his body was nothing but residual aches from the day. He lay in bed each night for at least an hour, eyes wide and muscles unable to uncoil. He was so tired, he wasn’t tired anymore.

 

He was only a month in.

 

There were nights where he contemplated the relevance of sleep, wondering if he truly needed it as much as everyone tried to make it seem like he did. He was either going to die of exhaustion or food poisoning before he even got his orders.  He was still trying to figure out where they had gotten the cook who didn’t seem to be able to do his job properly.

 

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, John woke and rolled over to look at the clock mounted above the cabin door. _0300_. He stifled a groan. His nerves had to be getting to him. The date was creeping closer and closer. He knew that being here in this cabin, with it’s paper-thin walls and lumpy mattress, was heaven compared to whatever he would be headed into after next month. He pulled the sheets up under his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to go home. He wanted a second chance where he didn’t have to do this. He didn’t want to die.

 

Why did he have to die?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock did not go to work for the next three days. Lestrade was at his door on the fourth.

 

“You’re not very pleased,” Sherlock drawled, not bothering to open his eyes or move from his sprawling position on the couch.

 

The detective inspector set his hands on his hips, taking in the frail form of his underling with destain. It didn’t seem as though it was going to be the job that would kill him. “Should I be?” He got not even a movement as a response. “Whether or not you want to work in this field isn’t up to you. It’s up to the Machine and It gave you this Job. You’re stuck with it. You have people relying on you now and I couldn’t care less if you feel up to this responsibility. You’ve got no choice now. So get up, get some pants on. We have a case.”

  
For a very long minute, there was no movement. Sherlock contemplated exactly twenty-six ways of killing Lestrade with no sounds involved. In the end, he flicked one eye open and peered at the other man. “What kind of case?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I might actually try one of those promised blowjobs next chapter. I wasn't brave enough this time. XD I've never actually written anything like it so I'm delaying. I know WHERE I want it, sorta. But I just need to be brave enough. 
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying this so far, though. Please review! Critique and encouragement are both very welcome! :D


	3. Chapter Two: War

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof. All respects to Sir A.C. Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. Thank you all, good sirs.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

**War: When talking about War, one must understand that those who go in are not meant to return. The Machine sends them to War on the basis that they do not fit into the Perfect Society. In the past, that meant that soldiers were ill-prepared and the doctors did not have the proper training to save any lives. Five years ago, the government decided that both needed better training. Statistics showed that those who returned from War and were reassessed by the Machine were more likely to land a better Job and fit into Society better. Soldiers got one month while doctors got three -- insufficient training by all other standards but enough to get by if they are lucky. The chances of survival have been raised considerably since tested five years prior.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

It _burned_.

 

Nothing had ever _hurt_ this badly.

 

He glared up at the sky, as if it was the sun’s fault he was in this much pain. But after counting to ten, he rolled onto his stomach and picked himself back up. He decided that if he hadn’t passed out yet, it must not have been that bad. He needed to get to a place where he could treat himself. Looking around, squinting against the sunlight, John searched for a suitable passage to safety.

 

A common misconception about war is that it did not take place on uninhabited lands. He was currently in a small village where most of the residents had been shot and killed when opposing sides clashed. About a dozen homes had been blown to bits for one of two reasons: _the enemy was hiding inside_ , or _it was in my way_. There were children crying somewhere behind him. He turned around, hands tightening around his gun, eyes scanning everything as he moved. Then he saw his safe haven. It was a chance. The fight had yet to move that way and his entrance could kill over thirty civilians. But he was feeling lightheaded.

 

Turning his back to his decided temporary first aid station, he readied his weapon and set his shoulders. He had two targets in mind before he retreated back. Setting his feet forward, he scrambled after a terrified child and swung his arm out to catch a young woman. He gestured to her to pick up the child and then tugged the two of them along behind him as he ran to his new station.

 

There was no silence. There were explosions and bullets flying and men shouting and civilians screaming. It was all man-made noise.

 

And, yet, as John ran, there _was_ silence. It was more in his head than around him but he translated it as complete silence nonetheless. His body felt heavy and he found that his feet were having trouble finding purchase on the ground. The woman glanced back at him as she took the child inside but his muscles would no longer obey orders and he collapsed into the hot Afghanistan sand.

 

Perhaps he should have seen it as lucky. Or that he was some sort of executioner. Because he heard it and he tried to shout but his voice was raspy from shouting earlier and the heat of the day had finally caught up with him. But the woman disappeared inside and the building exploded mere seconds after. He cried out soundlessly, trying to push himself forward. There were people to save. His shoulder burned and ached, making it feel like all the heat in his body was being dragged to that one point. He dropped back down, watching the building burn and figures that no longer resembled humans flee from it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Watson!” someone shouted from above him and he felt himself being hauled to his feet. “Keep up with me! Come on, you’re gonna be okay.” He stumbled along with the other man, listening to his niceties as they ran toward a nearby Jeep. He was shuffled inside and then the car was off, jostling him about. Someone screamed in pain. Maybe that was him. Maybe there were other wounded. Both were possibilities. There was a pressure on his shoulder and an urgent shout to someone who hollered back at him from his left. He moaned lowly, feeling too hot and too cold at the same time. “Watson! Stay with me!” But he didn’t even know who was above him. He tried to struggle back to the surface of his ocean of pain and was sunk by a massive wave as he was jolted violently when the car hit a rock. “Watso--!”

 

The silence that followed was absolutely deafening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a steady beeping sound coming from his left. A rhythmic dripping from his right. A horrific pain in his shoulder.

 

John pushed himself up in a single motion, gasping past the dizziness that flooded his vision. “Sir, you need to rest,” a woman with a heavy accent informed him, trying not to sound too alarmed as she moved toward his bedside.

 

His head was flooded with images that he couldn’t ignore, thoughts that were telling him he shouldn’t be sitting there. He ripped the IV from his arm, pulling off all the electrodes and causing the heart monitor machine to blare. The nurse looked about as panicked as she sounded, trying to calm him and push him back into bed. “I have _lives_ to save!” he screamed at her, trying to convey what he was understanding.

 

Two more nurses ran into the room and glanced around briefly before lunging into the fray. The first nurse tried to comfort him, to sedate him with words. Another reached for his pager, obviously hoping someone else could come deal with John.

 

But the struggle was doing nothing except aggravate him more, confirm that he was in danger. With a burst of strength, he shoved two of the nurses off and pointed to the third. “Give me my clothes. Now!” She squeaked and went to comply when a few more nurses, more burly this time, came in. John glared at them, readying himself to throw these ones off him as well.

 

Once the situation had been quickly assessed, one of the men tackled him to the bed and another stuck him with a needle. It took three minutes. John kneed the one on top of him and watched with triumph as the others backed away. It wasn’t until he was at the door and his knees gave beneath him that he realized what they had injected into him. He went through a list of medical terminology, landing on tranquilizer. He gripped the door frame weakly before it hit him fully; all his muscles failed him at once. He was vaguely aware of being hauled up and back to his bed where he was hooked back up to all the machines and his shoulder was prodded at obnoxiously.

 

His eyelids dropped and he huffed impatiently. It couldn’t be that bad.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Looking back, Sherlock was still unsure if it had been the smartest thing he had ever done. Not because it wasn’t effective or because he “could have gotten caught”. It was actually because he wondered if it had been completely necessary. At the time, though, he had been focused soley on what he was going to get out of this as he bobbed his head and sucked on Lestrade’s cock.

 

He was tucked very neatly under the Detective Inspector’s desk, feeling only slightly cramped and claustrophobic as he put his mouth to “good” use. He was not above this sort of thing when he wanted something. Lestrade hadn’t believed him until he’d dropped to his knees in front of him, giving him his best puppy-eyes as he nuzzled his crotch. It wasn’t much of a stretch to say that he had been looking forward to this little “discussion” for awhile now.

 

While it wasn’t common, there were cases of two Incompatible people gravitating toward each other and forming an Unregistered relationship. It was lonely and you were always surrounded by lonely people at work. To find someone who matched the intensity of this feeling wasn’t hard. To find someone who was willing to look past their title and accept a relationship with another like them was hard.

 

Sherlock had already figured that Greg had been alone long enough. He’d tried once before to be in a relationship with another Incompatible but his mindset had ended it. He saw that _lonely_ was a sentence and he would never be able to work well in a relationship with another human. That hadn’t stopped him from succumbing to his natural, carnal need and he had fallen quite gracefully into his chair again. There had been no time wasted in trousers being unbuttoned and cock being pulled from its confines before one very clever mouth had been wrapped around its head.

 

There had been full intention of keeping eye contact, to silently change Lestrade’s mindset. But somewhere along the way, it had been lost and Sherlock knew there was no getting it back. Sherlock closed his eyes as he sucked as much of the length as he could into his mouth, which was a considerable amount since he had never actually _practiced_ this part -- he only knew it in theory. His hand kept up a hesitant but unbroken slide across what he couldn’t fit without gagging. Lestrade seemed satisfied, though, so he wasn’t very concerned that his performance wasn’t up to par. He kept his eyes closed, letting his mouth and hand work on some autopilot he didn’t realize he had until that moment as his brain thought about what he was going to say when this was over.

 

He opened his eyes and looked up at the Detective Inspector curiously when keeping quiet seemed to become a much more difficult task than before. He reached his other hand up and tugged gently at his ballsack, more out of experimentation than because he thought anything would come of it. He let his tongue drag along a particularly prominent vein and sucked at the same time, startled when Lestrade let out a low groan, pushed deep into his mouth, and came down his throat. He wasn’t thrilled that it was assumed he was supposed to swallow. Briefly, he considered spitting it back onto Lestrade’s perfect suit but thought better of it and did what he had been silently asked to do.

 

When Sherlock slowly pulled himself off the DI’s cock, he was satisfied to hear a groan of disappointment. He smiled up at the older man as he tucked him away, doing his best not to look too smug. He allowed the other a moment to collect himself as he crawled out from under the desk and stood, brushing himself off. “I’m ready to talk now.”

 

Lestrade sighed, looking up at him with glassy eyes. “Sure ya are now…” he muttered, managing to seem both annoyed and disappointed at once. He adjusted his tie, as if this made the most difference in his appearance. “What did you want, then?”

 

There was a hollow throb of guilt that was easily pushed aside within Sherlock who watched the man carefully. He almost decided it wasn’t worth it and that it could wait. But he needed Lestrade to still be fuzzy from his orgasm, not thinking straight. It would help him in the long run anyway. “I’m going to be absent for a few days. Don’t bother me. Also, stop pestering me with boring and trivial cases that you can figure out on your own. I don’t like wasted time. Which is what most of this is. If it could be minimalized, I would appreciate it.”

 

Greg wrinkled his nose, turning around in his chair. “You do realize how utterly insane that would be of me? You’re basically asking me to let you run into whatever case your heart desires and hope to God that you don’t die because you don’t know what you’re doing. You realize this?”

 

Sherlock bit back one of his more stinging responses and rolled his eyes instead. “Lestrade, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here any longer. I wouldn’t need you or the team. I don’t need it.”

 

“That’s a fool’s death wish,” the other snapped, his pleasantness fading rapidly. Sherlock stared at him blankly, daring him to keep talking, to keep trying to convince him that his own mind was wrong. “I can’t morally _do_ that, Sherlock…”

 

He hadn’t played it well enough, then, Sherlock realized. There needed to be more emotion. He moved back toward him, kneeling down in front of Lestrade and resting his hands on his thighs, not too high. “Lestrade…” he whispered, pitching his voice low and watching the other’s eyes darken. “I know it’s hard for you to consider but please do. It would mean a lot to me to know that you trusted me enough to do this. I promise that I won’t let anyone on the team die because of me. I just can’t keep up with this.” Sherlock had played the game for a full year. But it was three later and he was _bored_. He was expected to be there for every little case and every little piece of paperwork and he couldn’t keep doing it. It wasn’t fair to his intelligence.

 

Lestrade grunted, considering his words very carefully as he slowly lifted his gaze toward his door. There was something in him that said he very obviously knew there was no real choice; Sherlock would do what he wanted in the end. The something that recognized this also realized that, knowing this, the prat was _asking permission_ , asking for a pardon of sorts. He could either make this easy for the both of them or make it extremely hard and he was more inclined to the first. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair and said, “Go home, Sherlock…”

 

His answer startled Sherlock, who had not expected it to be so easy. He slowly stood up, as if waiting for it to change. Lestrade didn’t look up from the paper he was eyeing on his desk. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. There was a pause where he took a deep breath and ignored the guilt again. Then he walked briskly out of the building and hailed a cab home.

 

He always got what he wanted. No matter the cost. Not even the _Machine_ could stop him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The building was small and compact, having only three divisions instead of twenty. John limped inside, eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light. It was Reassessment day. His chest was tight and his face was set. The working attendant was a tired old lady who took too long for his taste to find his file. When it was pulled up, his hand was grabbed and his index finger was pricked none too gently. She pressed his bloodied fingertip to a paper and added it to his file. He wrinkled his nose at his finger, pulling out a tissue. “Curtain number 4,” the woman croaked at him finally.

 

Standing on shaky feet, John went to the curtain and watched the light flicker from red to green. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the curtain and stripped down, setting his neatly folded clothes on the ledge by the doorway. He walked hesitantly toward the Detector. He didn’t want to do this again. He really wished he had died in the hot sand at war. It would have been easier for him. Much easier.

 

He clenched his fists and squared his shoulders before stepping into the frame. A low buzzing started as the scanner lifted and slowly slid to the top, beeping once, and then dropped back down. There was no voice to tell him anything. This was different than everything else. This was a Reprocessing. He stepped out and headed back to get his clothes. Once he was dressed, he walked back to the desk where his attendant was waiting for him. She handed him a folder silently, which he accepted gratefully.

  
This would tell him what he was going to be paid, if he would be allowed to find a new Job, what his life would look like from here on out. John waited until he was outside and his eyes had readjusted to the light before he opened the folder. Decent pay, not what he’d been making before, though. He had three options for work and he’d have to report back to the Assignment Center tomorrow because they all required school. Hopefully, he thought as he started walking again, he would be able to get what he wanted just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So... There you have it. My first "blowjob", if you even want to call it that. I felt that Sherlock got a lot of attention last chapter so I made it a point to make this one more about John. Hopefully I can just balance it all out again next chapter. 
> 
> Hope this is okay. Please leave love and critique! :D


	4. Chapter Three: Emotions

 

 

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof. All respects to Sir A.C. Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. Thank you all, good sirs.**

 

* * *

 

**Unregistered Relationship: An Unregistered relationship is a relationship that was not OK’d by the Machine. Normally, it is between two Incompatible people whom have become too lonely to bear and want to try being with someone. Sometimes, it is mainly for sexual pleasures. Other times, a person is lacking completely and believes being in another relationship will help them. Uncommon Unregistered relationships involve two Compatible people who have yet to be assigned to their partner or are cheating on their assigned partner because they do not feel connected to them. Most Compatible people are satisfied with whomever they get assigned but others go as far as to mutually agree with their partner to see others because there is nothing between them. The only time Unregistered relationships become a problem is when a child comes of it and must be put into the system. The Machine requests that all individuals involved in this be terminated.**

 

* * *

 

  
  


Sherlock paced his room, waiting anxiously. There was no guarantee that what he had done would work. Sometimes, the small ideas he planted grew and other times they shrivelled and died. It was the first time he had attempted to settle any sort of idea in Lestrade’s brain and he was uncertain that he had succeeded in planting it deep enough. It was still early in the day and he was mostly sure that he would be getting a call soon, demanding why he wasn’t at work. He could focus on nothing else. And there was just a _little_ anticipation worrying at the sharpness of his mind because if he got a call, he would get to hear Lestrade’s voice…

 

He shook his head and sat down on his bed, frustrated with himself. He had always been good at shutting off emotions when they were unnecessary but the past four years had become difficult. It had become obvious that Lestrade favored Sherlock above every recruit that had been shuffled in. Not in a nice way but in a, “He’s at my side and you do not argue this” way. At first, it had annoyed Sherlock who would have much rather enjoyed being able to do things without an audience. But the grudging praise that was showered on him became something he looked forward to when he got to challenge himself.

 

Unlike other DI’s he had had to deal with, Lestrade didn’t request him to take over _every_ case, only the ones he didn’t know what to do with. It was rather refreshing after a year of being bounced around. His second year of being a Detective had been the worst year of his life because his intelligence and maddening observation skills had become something of a legend through London. Different districts wanted to see him in action and he felt a bit like a lab rat. Everyone watched, “ooh”ed and “ahh”ed at him, and he had been close to just feigning stupidity when Lestrade put in his final request to keep him on his team. There were no more obnoxious trips to a different division so they could ask Sherlock to solve a painfully boring case for them. He wasn’t getting annoying emails describing simple mysteries and asking for help. Lestrade had staked a claim of sorts and no one could bother him whenever they wanted anymore.

 

In a way, Sherlock respected him for it and did his best for two full years to help Lestrade whenever he could. He kept his complaints of paperwork to a minimum and saved his snide remarks for when Lestrade would appreciate them, or least expect them and that was always interesting. For the most part, Sherlock kept himself manageable. He had weaned himself off his favorite experimental drug of choice, cocaine, and had dwindled only to patches when he needed extra help focusing. He had been doing very well.

 

Except for one thing. His _emotions_. He had always prided himself in being the best at hiding them, forgetting about them, and only paying attention to things that needed to be done. But after Lestrade had requested him to stay on his team, Sherlock had begun to feel a twinge that refused to disappear. He had already ascertained that Lestrade was not interested in Unregistered relationships anymore but he had never been in any before and he was more curious than anything. Or, that’s what he convinced himself of for awhile. It wasn’t until he had become bored of all the tedious paperwork and being dragged along to small and tedious cases that he changed his mind. That’s where he had gotten the “brilliant” idea to experiment on Lestrade.

 

He had worked himself up to that moment in his office for a week, watching videos with disgust -- _why would anyone subject themselves to demeaning acts so willingly and be so wanting about it?_ \-- and convincing himself that he was right. For once, he didn’t even stop to consult his Guides. In fact, he even went as far as to _ignore_ them a few times. He wanted to know how Lestrade felt, if he was willing to ignore his title as an Incompatible in favor of having someone to wake up to each morning. He wanted to try being with someone, even if that interfered with The Work a bit. He had actually told himself that things would work better because they were both _part_ of The Work. And he wasn’t sure if that was true or not but it made him feel better when he visited Lestrade and easily convinced him to open his pants for him.

 

Now he was reduced to waiting, wondering if he’d made the right decision or if he should not have simply ignored his impulses. It had all sounded well and good until he tried to sleep that night.

 

John stared at the board with wide, glossy eyes. A reoccuring nightmare had been keeping him awake all week and he was _tired_. He wanted to go home and curl up on his couch and sleep the day away but it was a requirement to be at school while “student” was still your status. So he had dragged himself to school and was sitting in his psychology class with a very foggy mind, barely paying any attention. His notes were simply big words and pitiful attempts at defining them; he was sure he was going to be bashing his head against a wall when he was more awake and studying for whatever test was going to be coming up next.

 

John shook his head, blinking rapidly, as the words on the board swam in front of his eyes. When he had gone back to find out what his Job was going to be, he had been pleasantly surprised that they wanted him to be a doctor. He was supposed to be in school for four years and then train for another year, studying under another doctor, before he was to be assigned to a hospital. The idea there was to keep him busy and entertained, after all, being in a war required him to be in a hurry. But the years stretching between the now and the future were already proving to annoy him.

 

After what felt like another hour, the professor wrapped up his lecture and dismissed everyone. John glanced at the clock and grimaced; another half hour before his next class. Why would he wrap up early? That was half an hour of attempting not to fall asleep. He groaned as he packed up his things and headed out of the classroom. He needed coffee; that was the solution. He veered to his right as he left the room, headed toward the cafeteria. “Hey, John!” someone called from behind him. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. His friend, Mike, was hurrying toward him, a broad grin on his face. “Hey, I almost thought I wouldn’t catch you.”

 

John blinked, drawing up a blank. Mike was in two of his classes with him and was a rather brilliant man. They got along nicely and Mike was sympathetic toward his time in the war, though he had never been. “Oh, I was just in a hurry to get coffee before I fall asleep on my feet.” John grinned in a lopsided way.

 

“Pesky nightmares, huh?” Mike fell into step beside him and they continued on. “Being that you were a medic on the field, I’m surprised they didn’t assign you a therapist, really. Isn’t that something that most get?” His brow furrowed deeply.

 

John shrugged. “It wasn’t on my paperwork and I don’t think I’d want to go even if it was. Talking about it doesn’t make it go away. Besides, I don’t do anything noteworthy. What would I tell a therapist?” He stopped to order a coffee, digging out his wallet and offering to buy his friend one.

 

“No, thank-you,” Mike responded kindly. “I’m trying to slow my caffeine intake. You could talk to them about the nightmares. That’s important, right?”

 

John snorted as he waited for his drink. “I suppose but they’re not frequent enough,” he said, taking his coffee gratefully. “They last a bit and then go away and I catch up on sleep so that they can start again. It’s a normal thing for me. I’m not worried about it.”

 

Mike followed him to a table. “Maybe you should be. My mom used to tell me that dreams were messages and all were important. Start writing them down. Then you can look at them and work the messages out of them and it’ll make them easier to work with.”

 

There was a moment in which John studied his friend carefully, before finally asking, “Have you ever found the messages in your dreams?” Mike smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “I didn’t think so.”

 

“Maybe you’ll be better at it than me, though,” he hastily added hopefully. “I never quite got the hang of it but my mom said she got lots of messages from writing down her dreams. You’re clever; you could have better luck than I do.”

 

“You still try?” John laughed a bit and sipped his coffee. “Oh god, I have never been so grateful for something so foul. Well, I wish you the best of luck but it sounds a bit silly to me.” Mike shrugged and grinned in good humor as they fell into an easy conversation.

 

At some point during the day, Sherlock had laid down and fallen asleep. His phone going off on his bedside table woke him up. He snatched it up and looked at the screen tiredly. _We need to talk. Can I come over after work?_ He scoffed, irritated that Greg had texted instead of called him. He rolled onto his back and answered sarcastically, _I would love it if you would._ He knew that Lestrade would take it seriously but it didn’t matter. Having Lestrade over was not something that had happened before and he was kind of excited about the idea.

 

He crawled out of bed and adjusted his shirt, stretching out. He should make sure the living room was clean. He wandered into the main room and started picking up loose papers and clues he’d left behind from his last case, trying to bring the room back to some semblance of order again. He glanced at the clock on his phone. Lestrade would probably be hungry when he got off; the man was probably worse than he was when it came to eating on cases with the exception of donuts and coffee, like the true officer of the law he was. With a sigh, he headed to the fridge to scavenge for food.

 

Sherlock was not a cook by any stretch of the imagination but when he did cook, he treated it like a chemistry project. He hadn’t gone shopping in awhile so he’d have to figure out how to concoct something from very little. He glanced through tupperware in the fridge, throwing things that looked inedible into the sink and setting edible things on the counter next to him. He ended up with rice, broccoli, and peas as the only things to work with. Frowning, he grabbed a bottle of soy sauce and set to work.

 

John flopped onto his bed when he got home, setting his bag on the ground beside him. His body was exhausted but his mind was swirling with definitions and words he couldn’t quite grasp. He’d gone through three cups of coffee and two cups of tea that day and not even his extremely full bladder could convince him to move off the bed now. He turned his head and stared at the wall, letting his entire body sink into the mattress.

 

As his eyes slowly fell shut and he started dozing, the images from his nightmare began drifting in behind his eyelids. It was simple and kind of comforting at first: pictures of the home he’d grown up in, a happy older sister, the drama club in high school. And then they turned darker: a red light over his head, dead bodies on the ground around him, water turning to blood as he tried to wash his hand. They were basic cases of psychological damage, guilt and horrific memories combining to make the dream.

 

But then there was a last sequence. It varied by scenery, otherwise never changing. He would be following a path that was lit from beneath his feet, walking in a dreamlike state. The red light over his head would be following him in a single point, as if watching. Then he came to a fork in the road. The light beneath his feet would not shine on either pathway, staying only under him. He would study each one and realize that both of them seemed exactly the same. More or less irritated, he would start marching through whatever was in front of him, ignoring the pathways completely. The light under the path would chase him on both sides but never go back to his feet. The red light above his head seemed to get angry and search for him. He would suddenly feel inexplicably panicked and start running. The ground beneath him would get harder to move over and he would trip somewhere. Sprawled on the ground, odd pictures would make up the scenery beneath and around him. Sometimes he recognized a few of the images but most of the time he didn’t. The red light above him would spot him and zoom in and then a pain in his shoulder would wake him up.

 

John followed the sequence up until he was about to trip. The scenery around him was made up of psychadelic colors and warped words, obviously some sort of obnoxious reminder of his day from his subconscious. But what he was about to trip on was a very prominent word _: guardare_. He had no recollection of what it meant or what language it was and yet he knew it was important. He went to step over it and a hand grasped at his ankle from his right, yanking him down. He yelled, sinking into the colors and the words and being pulled and tugged at by multiple hands.

  
With a start, he woke up. His shoulder did not ache, as it did every other time he woke up after a nightmare. Instead, his head hurt. He rolled onto his back, keeping his eyes shut. _Guardare_. The word hovered behind his eyes and he stretched toward his bag, grabbing a notebook. A pen was still stuck in the spiral from notetaking earlier and he silently thanked himself for doing that. He opened the notebook up to the first page and wrote the word on the back of the cover with the pen. He set the things aside and glared at his ceiling, feeling a tad bit _more_ tired than he had before he’d laid down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Erm, if any of you actually saw the previous attempt at this chapter, I am so very, very sorry. I deleted it because I absolutely hated it. I try to avoid scenes like that and my judgement was impaired when I put it up. However, I hated it so much, it was eating me up. So I tried again. And this is MUCH calmer. I like this more. It flows nicer. 
> 
> I hope that this chapter works better and helps explain things and everyone likes this. :) Please leave your thoughts so I can improve!! Thank-you for bearing with me!


	5. Chapter Four: Relations

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or characters thereof. All respects to Sir A.C. Doyle, Moffat, and Gatiss. Thank you all, good sirs.**

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Guides: A term used in the Metaphysical community to describe spirits or energies that people can consult with at any given time. They are available to any who seeks them out, either through meditation or simply listening with your heart instead of mind. Most people mistakenly pass off their Guides as a “conscience” or a guardian angel. Those who are aware of their Guides, however, consult them often -- from things that are potentially hazardous to whether or not they should pursue a course in school. While the Guides are there to assist, they are not there to protect from things that a person had Contracted to do in their lifetime, or stop them from dying if it is the person’s time to leave the physical world.**

 

* * *

 

 

Gregory Lestrade had always felt that he was a decent man. He had done his best with everything in his life, had tried to be a good person and do good things. And so, like most, he had found his Incompatible status startling and angering. He had felt that it was unfair that he had done so much in his life and the Machine had judged him poorly. What did a Machine know anyway? But, as he grew and matured, he had accepted the status, almost embraced it. He realized that everyone did their best. No one really _wanted_ to be Incompatible -- life was more limited that way, and infinitely lonely.

 

And yet, lately, he felt as though he were being tested. As Sherlock waltzed so elegantly into his life and had yet to leave it. In fact, if anything, he had further complicated it. He didn’t know what to think. He wanted to stay professional. He wanted to see how far Sherlock would go. He wanted to tell him that this couldn’t go further. He _really_ wanted to fuck him senseless. He also _really_ did not want to lose his job. Frustrated, Greg sat in his car, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to a nameless beat. He was still trying to determine what he was really doing there, what in God’s good name had possessed him to decide what he had. But before he could stop himself, he had said he’d be there and now Sherlock was waiting up in his flat for him.

 

He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He could get in trouble for this, he knew. While he knew relationships that the Machine didn’t authorize were not explicitly against any laws, he also knew that there were people who didn’t much like loopholes. Most of those people were in the Yard. Wasn’t he supposed to be one of those people? This is what working with Sherlock was doing to him.

 

With lips pressed tightly together, he pocketed his keys and got out of the safety of his car. He wasn’t looking forward to this. There were two ways this could go and he was mildly terrified of both. But he had promised Sherlock to visit him after work. Things needed to get sorted. He stepped up to the front door, knocking twice and hearing a sort of grunt of acknowledgement. With a slightly irritated huff, he pushed open the door and stepped into the flat.

 

Sherlock looked up from the experiment he was working on in the kitchen, hearing Lestrade’s distinct footsteps. His heart felt as though it was dropping from his chest; he sounded tired. His face, when it appeared in the kitchen doorway, expressed anxiety and lack of sleep. He eyed Sherlock wearily and leaned against the frame, attempting to look casual. “We need to talk so can you step away from whatever you’re doing for a mo?” he asked after surveying the table. He let out a withering sigh but got to his feet regardless. They migrated to the sitting room, which was no less cluttered than the kitchen. Greg moved a few papers off to the side and sat down on the couch, watching Sherlock take his favorite chair across the room. He was sure his anxiety was just filling the entire room.

 

“I know what you’d like to say,” Sherlock started before anything could be said. “But I know what else would be coming out of your mouth if you tried. It’s quite a conundrum for you, isn’t it?” There was a smile tugging at his lips now. “So say what’s really on your mind, Lestrade.”

 

Lestrade was fairly used to the idea that Sherlock could ‘read minds’ but it didn’t dull the annoyance it brought. With a fresh rush of irritation, he said, “I’m not sure you’d like to hear what I have to say, what I’ve been thinking. Because, honestly, Sherlock? This would be stupid to pursue.” There was a pause in which Lestrade felt a bit proud of himself for saying that much. But Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly and he felt some of his nerve fleeing him. “Sherlock, this is stupid. I shouldn’t have let you do what you did. I should report you, should let the Machine reassign you to either a different district or a different Job entirely. And I really can’t believe you actually did what you did because that was very... _not you_ …”

 

A bit of impatience was wearing at the edges of Sherlock’s being and it was showing. He huffed and looked away. “You’re being ridiculous and stupid, Lestrade. Giving me ‘I should’s instead of what you actually want. I can read you like an open book. You should know that by now. You’re conflicted, as any man should be. But I know which side is winning and it’s not the one that wants to turn me in. I gave you a _taste_ of what I can and am willing to do for you. Why would you turn that down?”

 

“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Greg shouted at him, appalled at the words tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth. “Are you even hearing yourself? What are you playing at? What more do you need from me, Holmes?” The switch in names caused a little hesitation to creep into Sherlock’s expression as he studied him carefully. “I don’t want…” Greg stopped to think about what he was going to say and then lowered his voice. “I don’t want sex and I don’t know that I can handle another relationship. The last one wrecked me. What do you need? I thought I gave you what you were seeking before?”

 

“No,” Sherlock stated simply because that should have been obvious. “I need _you_ , Lestrade. I owe you so much for keeping me here and not tucked under some lazy DI’s thumb, doing his every case. I wouldn’t mind doing _anything_ for you. It’s a very strange idea to me but it’s true. I want it. I crave it. I need it. And I know you wouldn’t mind, not really, if you got to have me however you wanted…” The look on Lestrade’s face shut him up instantly, confusion washing over him. No, he was not good at regular sentiment, but he was good at _reading_ people and he had seen it all. But Lestrade was not a victim or a murderer; he was a good man with good morals and he struggled and Sherlock knew, with a great and guilty leap of his heart, that he was making the struggle harder for him. “I apologise… I must have read the signs wrong…” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the admission that he could be incorrect with something.

 

“Damn straight you did,” Greg snapped, enraged and more frustrated than he had been before walking into the flat. “I won’t deny that there is a very large part of me that wants to disregard everything I know that keeps telling me trying _anything_ would be a bad idea. You’re the biggest test in my entire life and I wish I knew why you were here, pestering me in all the wrong ways. But, at least for today, I am going to have to decline your advances and offers.” He took a shuddering breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I appreciate you and I’ve given you what you asked for -- I’m covering your ass so you don’t have to do all the little cases. But that’s it for now. That’s all I’m willing to do, to admit to…”

 

Sherlock watched him, taking in the note of hysteria that was creeping into his voice and causing it to crack in odd places. He suddenly felt very guilty. He hadn’t thought that this would be so difficult for Lestrade. Feeling uncomfortable, he looked away. He had been selfish, the one thing he sought not to be every moment of his life. Again, in a defeated tone, he murmured, “I apologise…”

 

* * *

 

 

John sat on his bedroom floor, back against the end of his bed. He had a book propped up against his dresser and notes in his lap, he thoughtfully chewed the end of his pen as he read the page in the textbook again. It had been a week of nightmare-free sleep and he was attempting to focus on homework before tests in two days. Sighing around the pen, he rubbed his eyes and popped his knuckles. “Come on, Watson, let’s get this done and over with already,” he mumbled to himself. There was a rainstorm brewing outside and he really wanted to be in his bed with a good book, which was why he had settled himself on the floor instead. He was attempting to force himself to focus by being on the uncomfortable floor.

 

But he was getting frustrated. He’d been studying for three hours already and had crammed six subjects into that time. His head was starting to hurt behind his right eye. He glanced at the clock and set down his notebook and pen on the ground. He stood and stretched before going to his closet to grab a pair of shoes and a jacket. He decided to go on a walk before the rain started because he was sure it was going to be pouring for days and he knew he wasn’t going to want to be outside _in_ the rain.

 

After tying his laces, he threw on his jacket, grabbed his keys and jogged out the door. He headed down the steps and out the door, taking a deep breath and enjoying the slight scent of rain that hung in the air. It was well into the afternoon, bordering on evening, and the sun hovered over the horizon, threatening to plunge the city into darkness at a moment’s notice. He tried not to be out in the dark when he could help it but he really needed to stretch his legs. Walking down the streets of London, he barely took in any sort of surroundings. He was flip-flopping between zoning out and attempting to remember everything he had just studied. Quite suddenly, he knocked into a very solid someone on the walkway and he stumbled backward. “Oh,” he mumbled, looking up into shockingly blue eyes. “I-I’m sorry; I was distracted…”

 

The stranger glanced him over, for all the world looking like he was picking him apart with his eyes. “I can see that…” he finally said and flipped his gaze toward the street. “I’d only advise to pay a bit more attention to where you’re going.” A twitch of his lips, something of a weak smile, was thrown briefly in his direction. “A lamppost would not be so forgiving.”

 

Now irritated, John shouldered past him with a brisk, “Have a good night.” He continued on, hearing a soft grumble in reply. After a bit, he noticed a coffee shop with an “open” sign in the window and slipped inside. He went to the counter and ordered himself a chai tea.

 

He didn’t plan on staying and after paying for the drink, he headed for the door. However, a voice from someone sitting at the table under the window stopped him by casually throwing out, “I absolutely _love_ chai.” John glanced at the person who spoke. She was a tiny blonde woman with a rather attractive face and blue eyes with a stunning smile. “Of course, with the oncoming storm and the desire to just curl up and watch, I have to have something with a bit more caffeine to get through all the studying.”

 

This piqued his interest and he pulled up a chair, sitting across from her. “I forgot how stressful finals were. I am having such a hard time studying; I had to get some air before I went crazy.”

 

She laughed, a cheerful little giggle that made John grin stupidly. “Perfectly understandable. I had to do the same thing.” She held her cup in both her hands and rather close to her body, though it never left the tabletop, as if she were trying to absorb its warmth. “I’m going in to be a nurse. How about you?”

 

John felt himself beaming as he leaned back in his chair. “A doctor. They want to keep me busy but school is absolutely dragging. Three years of this… I don’t know that I can hold out.” She gave him an inquisitive glance as she sipped her drink. “I was sent to war and got shot. They couldn’t get rid of me that way so I guess they’re trying to bore me to death.”

 

“Pity,” she commented, looking up at him from under her lashes in a way that was a bit much for John. “I was hoping to get to know you a bit before the stress of work killed us.” He laughed and she held out her hand for him to shake. “Mary Morstan.”

 

He took her hand, warm from the drink she had been holding so closely. “John Watson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was sprawled on his bed, late into the morning as the sun filtered lazily through the heavy clouds outside his window. His mind was far from the dying storm or the day ahead. Instead, he was deep within his Mind Palace, discussing affairs with his Guides. _I met someone last night. Or rather, he ran into me. I have a strange rumble in my chest…_

**Do not concern yourself with it yet,** was his response.

 

 _Yet?_ he inquired curiously.

 

 **It is not yet time.** If he didn’t know any better, they sounded rather amused.

 

_Alright… Then what of Greg?_

 

**You have started something that you must see through until the end.**

 

_What does that mean?_

 

**It needs no other explanation. You will understand as time goes on and the pieces work together.**

 

_Why can’t you tell me straight-forward what you mean?_

 

 **Nothing ever comes complete. Do you not enjoy puzzles, my Brother?** Sherlock did not answer and various laughs -- some light and tinkling, some deep and rumbling -- echoed through the space. **We understand your frustration. You wish to see everything as it is, plain and simple, laid out before you. But you must walk before you can run.**

_Yes, I know…_ he answered grudgingly.

 

**You know but do not like it.**

 

_No, I do not. But if promises of puzzles are present, I will be patient. Is there anything else you wish for me to know at this time?_

 

There was a slight pause, only disrupted by a ripple of energy around him. **You are not alone, my Brother. Do not forget this. You are intelligent but do not be arrogant. Your heart is as important as your mind.**

 

_Of course. I will not forget again._

 

**All is as it should be. All is well. We love you, my Brother.**

 

_And I you. Thank-you._

 

* * *

 

 

_**One year later…** _

 

“Do you have to smoke that in bed?” Greg grumbled from his side of the bed, sprawled on his stomach with his head turned away from Sherlock. The blankets were a mad tangle around his body, all lean and long stretched out the way he was.

 

Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke and watched it drift lazily toward the ceiling. “Yes. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. Besides, you’d complain if I went outside with it; you always ask for half.” He glanced down at his partner. “You’d be upset that I didn’t share.”

 

Greg shifted so he could look at Sherlock with eyes dark from sleep. “Damn straight. I’m a whiner either way. Hand it over.” The other rolled his eyes and took another deep drag from the cigarette. With an irritated groan, Greg moved onto his back and pushed himself up into a half-sitting position. “ _Now_ hand it over.”

 

Satisfied that his pillowcase wouldn’t get burned, he passed the stick over and snuggled back down under the blankets. “Your senses are getting better. It’s three in the morning; you never wake for anything at this time.” The two had been together for nine months now and were not officially living together, though Greg had dumped more of his things in Sherlock’s flat than his own.  Neither were prepared to admit that they could have even made it to that step and would readily deny that they were that close. Through the months, their relationship had gotten easier but far too complicated for either to define. Most days, they never talked about it. It just _was_. Greg would show up at Sherlock’s flat and be there for days and neither would say a word about it. Internally, Sherlock was rather impressed with himself for not telling the other how _right_ he had been about Greg’s feeling toward him. But that was partly because he did not want to admit how he felt about Greg. What they had was something both were too scared to interpret because they knew it was a rather delicate thing. “I’m impressed.”

 

“If there’s one thing that wakes a person up quickly, it’s smoke,” Greg grumbled, finishing the cigarette and putting it out in the ashtray he kept on the little table by his side of the bed. They hadn’t wanted it to seem too much like they were living under the same roof, so to keep their sanity and full denial, they had simply put a fold-out table there instead of a bedside table. “ _Why_ , pray tell, were you smoking at three in the morning?”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock answered easily, stretching out before curling up on his side and looking up at Greg with a cat-like expression. “I’ve still got a buzz from the case.”

 

Greg ran a hand through his hair with a breathy “Blimey” escaping his lips. “Three days of little to no sleep and two go-rounds and you _still_ can’t sleep. Sometimes, I wish I had your resilience.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “You’d be grumpier than you already are. Don’t worry about it; I’ll fall asleep eventually. You should go back to sleep. I don’t want the rest of the Yard to have to deal with you when you haven’t had enough. No amount of coffee can make you a nice person after so little sleep.”

 

“Shut-up,” Greg snapped, an amused smile twisting his features into the rather attractive face that Sherlock craved to see daily. “You’re such an obnoxious prick.”

 

“I don’t see you minding all that much.” He watched Greg shift and wiggle until he was laying down again, rolling onto his side to face Sherlock. “You have a very handsome face…”

 

Even in the dark, Sherlock could see the pink on his cheeks. “Not compared to yours but thank-you.” He leaned over and kissed his forehead, settling back so they could stare at each other sleepily. In an odd way, it relaxed Sherlock. He could read every thought that passed over Greg’s face so easily and the ideas that came from them made him feel warm from the pit of his stomach out, calming him until he could sleep. Tonight was no exception. He found himself proud of his lover for not questioning him but understanding that it was simply something he needed.

 

* * *

 

 

John flipped through all the color choices, sipping his iced coffee, and walked down the street. Mary had demanded that he picked one by the end of the day but he couldn’t say that he liked any of the colors. “They all look like mud…” he muttered into his drink with a grimace at a particularly dark shade of brown. With a sigh, he tucked them back into his pocket and focused on not bumping into anyone. He and Mary had been dating for almost a year now. She had just bought her first flat and was attempting to pick a color to paint her living room; she wanted John to like it because she was hoping he would move in with her. He wasn’t quite sure they’d reached that step yet but he felt they were close.

 

With the decision to tell her that he disliked each of the colours she had picked, he fished in his pocket for his house key. He was rather happy in the flat he had been assigned, though he knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He had to leave the district in the next year and pick his own flat. The assignment had only been temporary, to help him with the transition back into civilian life -- “normal life”. He stepped up to his flat and went to unlock it, only mildly surprised to find it unlocked already. He huffed and pushed the door open, peering around, expecting to see the tell-tale signs that Mary was there. However, he found himself quite unnerved when he didn’t see her bag by the door or her shoes in the walkway.

 

John set his key on the table in the hall and toed off his shoes, letting the door swing shut of its own accord. “Hello?” he called, more hoping he _didn’t_ hear a response than expecting one. He wandered into his flat, all his senses tingling and on high alert. He peered into the living room and turned to the kitchen when two bright blue eyes that looked shockingly familiar, and not in the way he anticipated, blinked at him and he shouted, swinging at the person.

 

Mary burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles and he was not thrilled, resting one hand over his heart. “Welcome home,” she gasped, grinning widely.

 

“That’s not funny,” he grumbled at her, still trying to regain his breath. “I warned you…!” He leaned against the wall by the doorframe, letting his eyes close.

 

She rested a hand against the frame and smiled at him. “You missed, soldier.” Then she took his hand and dragged him into the kitchen. “I made dinner.”

 

He glanced around at the table and felt a rather uneasy feeling settle in the pit of his stomach. “What’s the occasion?” he inquired, hoping that maybe he’d just forgotten a birthday or something. At least it would be easy to swallow; they’d only been dating a year.

 

“None,” she answered, taking a seat. “I just know you’ve been really stressed lately. School seems to be wearing you out pretty fast. I thought a nice night in would be _just_ what you needed.”

 

John sat opposite her and smiled gently. “Thank-you. This is amazing.” He felt some of the tension from the day ease from his shoulders as he settled in. “You always seem to know…”

 

Mary beamed at him, eyes glittering excitedly. “I just watch you. You interest me. Besides, what else am I good for but to keep you happy and well-fed? You were withering away when we first met.”

 

He snorted, setting his coffee aside in favor of some very enticing-looking curry. “I was not. I had plenty of take-out. Which, I am very aware this is. I eat at this place frequently. But ‘a’ for effort.” She stuck her tongue out at him and started eating. “Really, though, we need to talk about those colors.”

 

“Did you finally decide on one?” Her attempt to keep her voice casual but the bubbling anticipation that was almost always beneath the surface of it seeped through.

 

“No,” he told her firmly and she deflated a bit. “I can’t stand any of them. Why _brown_? Why can’t you paint it a blue or a green?”

 

She wrinkled her nose daintily. “Green? That makes me think of being seasick and I don’t think I’d want my living room reminding me of vomit.” John snorted so hard, he coughed deeply. “Are you okay?”

 

“Fine…” he muttered, taking a drink of his coffee. “I wasn’t expecting that answer… Mary, pick whatever color you want. It’s your house.”

 

Mary glanced at her plate a moment before glancing up at him again. “Yes, but I want you to like it as well. I want you to _want_ to come over.”

 

John smiled, feeling a blush on his ears. “I’d come over for you, not the walls. Just because I think all the colors you picked look like mud, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still stop in. The color of your walls is not the reason I’d visit. Or, ya know, one day maybe move in.”

 

She smiled, the brightness coming back into her features. “I should hope you wouldn’t want to come over just for the walls. I’d be very insulted.”

 

He laughed lightly. “You worry too much. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere any time soon, ya know.”

  
The light in her eyes seemed to fade ever so slightly at the words but she resolutely kept the smile on her face as she whispered, “I know. Thank-you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I am so sorry for the delay in this. I had a very heavy case of writer's block on this story. It wasn't that I didn't know where I wanted to go, it was making the arc into it. But I now finally have a direction and should be able to get this going again. I appreciate all patience!!
> 
> I did want to make a quick note on the conversation between Sherlock and his Guides. I put it into more of a way you'd hear it if you were talking to a channel. ("(of a person) serve as a medium for (a spirit)." Thank-you, Google.) It's something I'm kind of used to hearing around my house so I used that for inspiration so you could better understand that. Normally, it's more of a sensation of what's going on, not so much words. But I wanted it to be rather simple for you all to read and understand and that's why I chose to write it that way.
> 
> Also, I wanted to give credit to the source used to define "Twin Flames" as I found it so much easier to word thanks to this http://www.in5d.com/twin-flames-origin-purpose-and-relationships.html Take a peek if you want to read everything they have to say on the matter.
> 
> (PS, it's 1:30 in the morning so I apologise for ANY and ALL mistakes I have made.)
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying this so far and that you'll bear with me while I flesh this thing out. I appreciate feedback and love! Thank-you all again for patience and I hope I haven't disappointed! Much love to everyone!!


	6. Author's Note (Delete later)

I'm very sorry for interrupting your reading and getting your hopes up but I'm having a bit of a struggle with something. I love this story, really. Or, rather, the idea of it. I want the plot to succeed and bring more awareness. However, I'm kind of at an impasse here. On the one hand, I adore the beginning of this story and I've experimented with a few things here that I've never done before. On the other, I kind of feel like I'm not going in quite the right direction and my biggest points are missing. I'm not sure if I want to continue this or start over. The basic idea would stay the same if I decided to restart this, of course. At the same time, I've gotten so far with this one. 

 

So, for the moment, I'm stuck. I'm pausing this story while I debate this out. 

 

If you have any thoughts on the matter, I would appreciate it. I'm very sorry for this delay and I hope that you'll be here should I continue this chapter or start over. Thank-you all for your patience with me thus far. I appreciate your support more than you can imagine. Thank-you and Happy New Year!!

 

EDIT: PLEASE READ (take out any spaces that hinder your being able to reach the destination): http: //hadriadenmaclint. tumblr.com/ post/148152328184/ this-is-to-all-my-faithful-followers-on-ffnet-and


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